"Judith," said Margo. "My name is Judith Brown, and I'm going to Los Angeles to find my mother."

  The old man's wrinkled, papery face lit up with curiosity. "To find your mother?"

  He wants a story, Margo guessed, suppressing a grim smile. What would he think if she told him the truth—if she told him about her life as an abandoned child shipped from one foster home to another, about the abuse she'd suffered at the hands of older "brothers" and even foster parents—if she told him about the crimes she'd had to commit in order to break free?

  He wanted to hear a story, but not that story. No one wanted to hear that story, least of all Margo herself. That was why she was starting a new life. She'd left the old life behind, taking away nothing but the survival skills her pain and deprivation had bequeathed to her.

  She turned with sweet, melancholy eyes to the old man. "My mother gave me away when I was born," she explained. "I don't blame her. She was very young, and not married."

  The old man clucked his tongue. "You poor thing."

  "I'm not the one you should feel sorry for," Margo told him. "Think of how hard it was for her, a young girl from a small town, pregnant and deserted by the boy she loved, with no one to turn to, no place to go. She left me one cold winter's day—Christmas Eve, actually—on the steps of a church, bundled in a blanket. And she was never seen or heard from again."

  He clucked his tongue again. "Oh, my."

  Margo continued with the fiction, enjoying her story. "I was truly fortunate, however, to be raised by a very kind family, the Browns. I had everything a child could want or need. But, as much as I've loved the Browns, I never forgot that they weren't my real parents. I never stopped dreaming of finding my real mother someday."

  "And you did? You found her?" the old man asked eagerly.

  Margo nodded. "Every year at Christmas, someone made an anonymous donation to the church—the very same church where my mother left me," she said, swept away by the fantasy she was weaving. "It was never very much money—a pittance, really—but clearly it meant a lot to whoever gave it. This year, someone at the church finally decided to see if they could discover who the donor was by tracing the money order." She paused dramatically.

  The old man was on the edge of his seat. "And it was her!" he exclaimed.

  "It was her," Margo said softly. "You see, she hadn't forgotten me, either. Every year she sent a little something from California, where she'd gone to start a new life, hoping that somehow, in some way, it would reach me and help me."

  Margo watched with satisfaction as the old man reached into his shirt pocket for a handkerchief and then dabbed at his eyes. People are so gullible, she thought scornfully as he blew his nose with a loud honk. They're so easy to manipulate, to soften up, and then wrap around your finger.

  They rode in silence for a while, until the bus pulled off the highway again. A minute later, it rattled to a stop in the middle of another town that looked exactly like the last one. The old man shuffled to his feet. "This is where I get off, dear," he informed Margo. "I wish I could get you over to my sister's. She'd cook you up a nice hot breakfast—put some meat on your bones. You have such a long way to go, and all by yourself. . . ."

  "I'll be all right," Margo assured him, allowing her voice to tremble just a tiny bit.

  "Well . . . here." The old man fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. Pulling out a bill, he pressed it into Margo's hand.

  "Oh, no," she demurred, dropping her eyes shyly. "Really, I can't—"

  "I insist." He folded her fingers around the bill, squeezing her hand. "And so you don't go hungry while you're on the road—" He pushed the brown paper bag toward her. "—one of my sister's sandwiches. It'll tide you over till suppertime."

  "Thank you," Margo said, acting grateful and embarrassed. "Thank you very much, sir."

  The old man started down the aisle, his cane tapping. "Good luck to you, dear," he called back to her.

  Margo lifted her hand in a wave. The old man stepped down to the sidewalk and the bus roared off.

  Margo watched the man's figure grow smaller and smaller, until he was just a tiny doll, and then a speck, and then nothing. Unclenching her fist, she looked at the bill he'd given her. Five bucks—big deal, she thought. Still, cash was cash. She'd need every penny she could get.

  Margo tucked the money into her bag, then opened the old man's paper sack. Inside was a fat turkey sandwich in plastic wrap. Lifting the sandwich to her nose, she gave it a disdainful sniff and tossed it out the open window.

  Chapter 2

  "I still can't believe it," Caroline Pearce said, her green eyes somber. "I can't believe this is happening here in Sweet Valley, and to the Wakefields of all people! I keep thinking one of these days we'll all wake up and find out we've been having some kind of collective nightmare."

  The faces of her friends, gathered in the hall of Sweet Valley High on Monday morning before homeroom, were equally solemn. "It's a nightmare, all right, but we're wide awake and living through it," Amy Sutton, one of Jessica's two best friends, remarked grimly, shaking her head at the open newspaper in front of her.

  Just then Lila Fowler, Jessica's other best friend, arrived and pushed forward to get a look at the front-page headline of that day's Sweet Valley News. "'Wakefield Manslaughter Trial Starts Tomorrow,'" she read out loud. Lila shivered. "Manslaughter trial—they make it sound like she's a serial killer or something!"

  "Poor Elizabeth," Caroline murmured. She pointed to the photograph underneath the headline. "She looks awful. How will she ever have the strength to testify?"

  Lila studied the picture of her best friend's twin sister leaving the courtroom after the arraignment a few days earlier. Elizabeth's eyes were deeply shadowed and her once sun-streaked blond hair hung limply around a thin, unsmiling face that even in the grainy image looked as pale as milk. "Her clothes are practically falling off her," Lila observed. "I bet she's lost five or ten pounds since . . ."

  Lila's voice trailed off. Since the night everything changed forever, she thought to herself. She wondered if any of them, if anybody at Sweet Valley High, would ever forget that night. She knew she never would.

  And I thought I'd been having a bad night, Lila reflected, wryly. She was thinking about Nathan Pritchard, a counselor at the high school who'd chaperoned the Jungle Prom. Nathan had worked with Lila at Project Youth, helping her sort through her feelings after she was nearly raped by her classmate John Pfeifer. At the prom, when the brawl broke out between Sweet Valley and Big Mesa students, Nathan had tried to get Lila out of the fray, to safety. Alone with Nathan, all her fear and confusion about her near rape resurfaced and she'd freaked out. When the police arrived, Lila had accused Nathan of trying to attack her.

  It was bad, all right, Lila mused, the voices of her friends fading in and out as they discussed the tragedy, but in some ways it was incredibly good. She hit emotional rock bottom that night, so from then on, there was no place to go but up. With Nathan's help, she'd confronted her problems and realized they went way beyond the incident with John Pfeifer. And that's when Daddy called Grace in France and she came to be with me. After all these years, I finally have a mother.

  Yes, Lila decided silently, as she continued to stare at the newspaper picture of Elizabeth, I got lucky. For Liz and Jessica and their family, and for Sam Woodruff's parents, there was no silver lining—only tragedy.

  Caroline reached into her purse for a piece of gum. "I feel so sorry for all of them," she said, unwrapping it. "For Jessica, losing Sam, and for Elizabeth having to go on trial. As if just knowing she was behind the wheel that night isn't punishment enough!" She shook her head.

  Rosa Jameson, who had been keeping quiet until now, spoke up timidly. "Maybe the trial won't turn out so badly. Once they hear Elizabeth's side of the story—once they see for themselves that she's really a decent, responsible person . . ."

  "Don't be naive, Rosa," Lila advised. "My dad says the prosecuting attorney is a real terror. He's going to eat Elizabeth for lunch."

  "They can't hear Elizabeth's side of the story because she doesn't know her side of the story," Amy explained with exasperation. "The Jeep crashed, Sam was killed, and they were both drunk at the time. Those are the facts."

  "Their being drunk—that's the part I don't understand," interjected Rosa. "I can't imagine Elizabeth ever touching alcohol."

  "Sure, it's totally out of character," Caroline agreed. "But blood tests don't lie. She was wasted."

  Rosa shook her head. "I still don't understand it. Who would have brought alcohol to the dance, and what on earth would have made her—"

  At that moment, Lila spotted Jessica walking toward them. She motioned rapidly to Caroline, who quickly stuffed the newspaper back into her pack. "Hi, Jessica," Lila said brightly.

  Jessica's eyes flickered over her friends' faces. "You don't have to pretend you weren't just talking about the trial," she informed them dryly. "Everybody else is—why shouldn't you?"

  Caroline patted Jessica's arm. "We were only saying that we wish there was something we could do. We just want you to know we're here for you, Jess."

  Jessica's lips twisted. "For me? Hey, I'm fine. I'm not the one you should worry about. I'm not on trial for murder."

  Brushing past them, she continued on down the hall, her shoulders back and her head held high. The group of girls stared after her. "Talk about denial," murmured Amy.

  Lila knew Amy liked to bandy about the psychology terms she'd learned since she'd started operating the teen hotline at Project Youth. But Lila had to agree. Jessica was suffering from a serious case of denial.

  Bruce Patman elbowed his way down Sweet Valley High's crowded main hallway, heading for his locker. All around him there was a steady buzz of voices; at the same time, the atmosphere was somehow solemn.

  Everyone's discussing Elizabeth's trial, Bruce guessed, a grim smile curving his lips. Maybe we should take bets on the verdict—guilty or innocent?

  It was weird, Bruce thought. Just about the time the accident occurred that had cost Sam his life, Bruce's own life was being saved.

  And I was falling in love, Bruce thought with bitter irony. What a fateful night.

  He frowned as he reached his locker, thinking back. His memories of that night were burned indelibly onto his brain. He knew he'd never forget them, no matter how much he wanted to—now that it was over between him and Pamela.

  From the start, Bruce had known there'd be trouble at the prom. For weeks, Sweet Valley's rivalry with Big Mesa High had been growing more and more intense. The dance was open to other schools, and there had been a rumor going around that a bunch of Big Mesa kids were going to show up. Everyone knew a clash was inevitable.

  Soon after Jessica was crowned Prom Queen, gangs of kids from the feuding schools poured out of the gym onto the football field. The brawl had been a wild one, and Bruce had given as good as he got . . . until the moment he was struck down from behind by a boy with a baseball bat.

  Another blow might have killed him. . . . But then she had appeared. In his mind's eye, Bruce once again saw Pamela's beautiful, distressed face, heard her gentle voice pleading for mercy on his behalf. Why? he wondered. Why had she bothered?

  She'd disappeared into the night without a trace, but Bruce had tracked her down, convinced that she was the girl of his dreams, the one he'd been longing for ever since he'd lost Regina. And at first, she was everything he'd imagined. For the first time since Regina died, Bruce had felt he'd found someone he could truly care for. Little did I know, he thought as he dialed his locker combination with quick, impatient jerks of his wrist, that my angel of mercy would turn out to be anything but innocent!

  His jaw clenched with undiminished anger as he recalled the Sunday morning when he drove over to Pamela's house to surprise her with an armful of roses. He'd surprised her, all right . . . stepping out of the car of some guy she'd obviously been with all night. Bruce had never been so humiliated; he'd never felt like such a complete and utter fool.

  Grabbing the books he needed for his first class, Bruce slammed his locker shut and turned to plunge back into the stream of students. Suddenly—as if his thoughts had conjured up a living image—he found himself staring straight at Pamela Robertson.

  Bruce's face flooded with heat. Is it my imagination? he wondered, blinking. Am I going nuts? No, Pamela was real and walking right toward him, clutching a stack of books and looking like any other student in the hallway . . . or rather, any other new student.

  Clearly, she didn't know where she was going. She glanced at the lockers as she passed, reading the numbers. When she spotted Bruce, she stopped in her tracks, her bright blue eyes widening. Starting forward again, she bumped into somebody walking in the opposite direction and her books went flying.

  In the few seconds it took Pamela to pick up her books, Bruce recovered his composure. This was his school, after all. She was the one off balance.

  Pamela straightened up, flipping back her dark, tumbled hair. Seeking Bruce with her eyes, she gave him a tentative half-smile, the kind that was ready to blossom into a full smile if it met any encouragement.

  It didn't. Bruce stepped toward her, but only because he had to in order to get to his homeroom. A look of disgust on his face, he brushed past Pamela without a word.

  What's she doing here, anyway? he wondered as he sauntered down the hall, hoping everyone could see that Pamela Robertson meant absolutely nothing to him. Has she slept with all the guys in Big Mesa? Did she switch schools so she could make some new conquests?

  One thing Bruce knew for sure. Pamela's reputation had preceded her to Sweet Valley High. He hadn't been the first to learn of her exploits—not by a long shot. And he had a hunch that by the end of the day—maybe even by lunchtime—Pamela was going to wish she'd stayed in Big Mesa where she belonged.

  Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven—here it is. With a sigh of relief, Pamela stopped in front of her new locker at Sweet Valley High. Bending her head, she read the combination printed on the small piece of paper in her hand, glad for a chance to hide her face, which was still beet red from her encounter with Bruce.

  He didn't seem too thrilled to see me, Pamela thought wryly. If only she could turn back the clock, go back in time to that Sunday morning he'd stopped by her house. . . . But he didn't just see something, he heard the gossip, too. So I have two strikes against me, two resounding strikes. . . .

  As she opened the locker, Pamela made a conscious effort to straighten her shoulders and lift her chin. She couldn't let herself forget why she was there. It wasn't just for Bruce, although of course she was hoping he'd give her a chance to win back his respect and affection. I'm doing this for me, Pamela reminded herself, I need a new start.

  She didn't want to pretend to anybody that she was a pure and spotless angel, Pamela mused as she placed all but one of her new spiral notebooks and folders in the locker. All she wanted was a chance to change, to leave her past behind and move forward with her life. Pamela closed her locker and prepared once again to negotiate the unfamiliar corridor filled with unfamiliar faces.

  Pamela paused in front of the door to her new homeroom, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. A hopeful smile touched her lips. Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the door.

  Mr. Harrison, the homeroom teacher, hadn't arrived yet, but the classroom was already full, with all but a few seats in the far corner taken. As Pamela made her way toward one of the unoccupied desks, she couldn't help noticing that the hum of voices stopped abruptly. There was a moment of silence so complete it was almost loud, and then the voices started up again. But lower this time . . . whispers.

  They're probably just talking about the trial, Pamela thought, feeling the color rise in her face. But along with the whispers came pointed, curious glances. Pamela had been the object of gossip too often not to know what those glances meant.

  She fought the urge to turn on her heel and bolt back out into the hallway, to run as fast as her high-heeled sandals would take her out to the parking lot and all the way home to Big Mesa. Instead, she forced herself to continue to the back of the room. She took her seat, her head still held high.

  I'm going to do this, she told herself, folding her hands on top of the desk and staring straight ahead of her at the blackboard. I'm going to stick it out, and I'm going to succeed.

  After all, there were lots of people out there who were up against much harder problems than she was, people right in this very school. Pamela thought about the poor Wakefield twins. Everyone in Big Mesa—everyone in the entire county—knew about what happened the night of Sweet Valley High's prom. For Pamela, it was the night she first set eyes on Bruce Patman. The boy Pamela knew she'd love forever . . . even if he never said another word to her.

  Chapter 3

  I wish I had an excuse to stay home from school like Liz, Jessica thought as she marched through the cafeteria, shifting her lunch tray from one hand to the other to keep from being jostled. Ordinarily, she liked being the center of attention. If kids at school ogled and admired her, it was just a reflection of the fact that she was the most popular girl at Sweet Valley High, the girl every guy wanted to date and every girl wanted to be. Today, though, Jessica could sense that the looks coming her way were of a different nature altogether. They were curious, prying, pitying. Everyone wants to know what it feels like to have your sister on trial for accidentally killing your boyfriend. Jessica smiled grimly as she kicked someone's backpack out of the way. That's why people read those tacky tabloid magazines, right?

  She reached the table by the window that she'd been aiming for. Todd was sitting there, along with Bill Chase, DeeDee Gordon, Winston Egbert, and Ken Matthews. "Hi, everybody," Jessica said, slamming her tray down in between Bill and Todd.

  Todd slid his chair over a few inches to make room for her. Jessica saw Bill and his girlfriend, DeeDee, exchange a glance. They're not used to seeing me with Todd, Jessica guessed, dropping into her chair and allowing her arm to brush Todd's in a familiar, possessive manner as she did so. Well, take a good look, folks. Elizabeth is out of the picture—this is the way it's going to be from now on.